Life in the Margin
by paganpunk2
Summary: "Always be faithful; never be the first to fail a friendship. Grief consumes the heart that must take care to keep itself concealed." A passage from the Hávamál drives Bruce to repair a broken bond.


He was alone in the house, Alfred having taken Jason with him to do the grocery shopping, and that was very, very good.

Despite the fact that he was certain there was no one around to see, Bruce glanced suspiciously down the hallway in both directions before pulling a key from his pocket. It slipped easily into the bedroom knob across from his own, allowing him access to the chamber that had haunted him for the past three years. He stepped inside quickly and shut the door, locking it again behind himself just in case. He had a tendency, he knew, to lose track of time when he did this, and the last thing he needed was to see the knowing look that would appear on his butler's face were he to catch him.

His infiltration complete, he confronted the room. _I shouldn't be here. _He shook the thought off, recognizing it as the same one that plagued him every time he dared to slip into Dick's old space. There were fewer opportunities for him to do so now that there was once again a third person in the house, but that only made the moments he _could_ steal all the more precious. _I wish…no. He…he's his own person now. His own man. Leave it be._

There was nothing in here that he hadn't examined a hundred times since the last night he'd seen his son as a civilian. The teen had appeared to be asleep, seemingly exhausted after a heated argument with his mentor that had only ended when Batman spat out something particularly venomous. He hadn't so much as stirred when the man had perched on the edge of the mattress beside him and gently wiped tear tracks from his pale juvenile cheeks. Bruce remembered all too well how he'd rested his hand on the boy's hair and stared down at his slumbering visage, a vice of fear squeezing his heart. _"…I'm sorry, Dick,"_ he'd murmured. _"I'm going to miss Robin, too, believe me. But…it has to be this way. Only having one of you is going to be bad enough; I can't live if I lose you both._" With that he had brushed a butterfly kiss against his temple, stood, and exited the room. By morning Dick had gone, leaving Robin behind – _exactly_, the billionaire had noted despondently, _the way I asked him to – _and not resurfacing until he could do so under a new name.

_ Nightwing,_ he sighed to himself as he crossed to the stack of newspaper clippings on the desk. The size of the pile made a little grin play around his lips that only grew sadder when he removed a new article from his jacket and placed it on top. '_Bludhaven's Bodyguard Puts Bank Robbers Behind Bars,'_ shouted a headline that had been printed less than twelve hours prior. The words crowned a veritable mountain of achievements, and Bruce had to shake his head as he turned away. _…I was wrong, Dick. I'm sorry._

Indeed, for all that his worry had been justified, he'd realized almost immediately that he _had_ been wrong to try and take the acrobat's mask away. _It wasn't mine to take, really. You didn't have to wear it; I never forced it on you. You wore it because you __wanted__ to, and as such it became a part of who you are. I had no right to try and close you off from yourself; had you stayed, you wouldn't have been Robin, but you wouldn't really have been Dick, either. I should have seen that._

The billionaire felt a sudden craving for a stiff drink, a reminder of what had drawn him upstairs to begin with. _Twenty one,_ he leaned heavily against the back of the desk chair. _Twenty one today. Is someone doing something for you, chum? _It was a silly question; Wally, at least, was certain to make sure that his best friend got utterly smashed. He frowned as he remembered that it was only Tuesday. _…He's more likely to come up this weekend, now that he's got a family to support. Well…hell. I guess better late than never, but…hopefully they at least had a little moment of recognition at his precinct._

_ That_ had been the surprise of his life, coming down to his morning paper eight months after his son's angry departure and finding the society pages abuzz with chatter about how he'd taken up a blue-collar job across the river. '_Billionaire's Heir Takes Up A Baton;' 'Social Ladder Roller Coaster Ride;' 'Scandal!' _Bruce remembered the titles all too well, the same as he could recall the numbing anger he'd carried for the rest of the week. _Of course he went and became a cop as soon as he was old enough to. I told him I didn't want him in danger from criminals and villains, so naturally his first response after claiming a new mask was to extend his exposure to violent death into the daylight hours. That was low, Dick, and cruel to me. And I know you know it._

He'd come around to the idea, though, eventually forcing himself to realize that the younger man likely hadn't chosen police work simply to irk him. Once he really thought about it, he had to admit that it was a very suitable profession for someone as genuinely honest and dedicated to the concept of justice as the boy he'd raised was. If it hadn't been for the fact that he knew he would spend every possible moment of his shifts out on patrol, chasing the nastiest people his new city could offer, his only emotion would have been pride. Instead, his old fear had raised its head, staying his hand from reaching for the phone to call, to give congratulations, to apologize. Their mutual silence had gone on, uninterrupted.

The terrible ache of missing him had become a habit now, much in the way that his trips to his old bedroom had. When he'd had Jason at the very first, he'd thought it might get better, but the differences between the first and second Robins had far outstripped the similarities that might have soothed his wounded soul. Evidently his disappointment that the younger boy wasn't filling the shoes of his predecessor had been showing of late, judging from the outburst that had occurred a few nights earlier. Jason had accused him of caring more for the absent figure of his older son than for the people who were still by his side; Bruce, considering the allegation later in the quiet loneliness of his bed, had been a little shocked to find that he wasn't wrong. _…It's obvious, really,_ he'd mused. _I took Robin away because I needed Dick too much to lose him to the night. But with Jason…I practically bribed Jason with a mask. If I felt for him what I did – what I still do – for Dick, I would never have let him be Robin, and I certainly couldn't let him continue down that path now. Not that I wouldn't care if something…happened…of course I would, but…_ But in the back of his mind, he knew, there would always be a little voice whispering that at least it wasn't his eldest that something had happened to.

Moving to the broad shelving unit that stood within reach of the bed, the billionaire traced his fingers along the spines of works ranging from classics to new fiction to biographies. He paused when he felt real leather, then pulled the tome out and stood with it in his hand. _Christmas, six years ago,_ he recalled giving this particular gift. _You were obsessed with Vikings for about six months…don't ask me why. Either way, this seemed appropriate at the time._ "Hávamál," he pronounced the old Norse philosophy's title out loud. "Sayings of the High One." It had been at least two decades since he'd read it himself, but it had brought him pleasure at the time. Maybe now, he mused, it could ease his pain. _Well, Odin, you had sons; got any advice?_

It wasn't a serious question, of course, but he carried the book back to the desk anyway. Moving the stack of triumphant articles carefully to the side, he opened it randomly and let his eyes flit over the text. Honor, rule of law, and the importance of dying a good death spilled forth. Through it all ran the undeniable certainty that two warriors who tied themselves together by oath were bound for life, and even after death. _Somehow,_ he snarked mentally after reading a number of pages, _that isn't making me feel any better._

He was about to put the collection away when his gaze happened upon a particular passage. '_Always be faithful; never be the first to fail a friendship. Grief consumes the heart that must take care to keep itself concealed.'_ The second sentence was underlined in pencil, which in and of itself struck him as odd. _Dick was never one to write in his books,_ he frowned. _So why…_ His answer came when he glanced at the edge of the page, where five very familiar letters had been scribed on the otherwise flawless paper. There was no question mark to suggest that the writer had been uncertain in his characterization, and no further note to explain the judgment.

_It doesn't need expanded on,_ he thought miserably as he stared at the particular sweep of his name, scrawled in the same script in which it had once appeared on gift tags and in notes. _I am the concealed heart, consumed by grief. You bet I am, chum. No one has ever seen as much of me as you, but I failed you anyway. I destroyed our friendship because I thought it would save your life, but…to be honest, I know you wouldn't have preferred it that way. And now, without you, the only life __I__ have is grievous and insular. And I hate it, Dick. It's your birthday today, the last big milestone birthday that there is when it comes to growing up, and I'm not there with you. I'm not there because of my own stupidity. I should have trusted you better. I should have been faithful, and not given in to the fear that you conquered as a mere child. _

A bit of dampness stained the skin beneath his eyes. As he wiped at it, a thought galvanized him. _…I'm still being stupid, though, aren't I? I'm still showing you no faith, at least,_ he gazed at the clippings, _not where you can see it. I missed your eighteenth, and your nineteenth, and your twentieth, because I was too wrapped up in my own grief to bring myself to go after the only thing that has ever proved capable of freeing me from it._ He stood up, his fingers tight on the leather binding. _I'll be damned if I let it hold me hostage any longer._

He left no note, instead simply storming downstairs and out of the house. He was gripped by the sort of determination that he rarely experienced when the cowl was safely on its stand, but not even that was enough to wholly quiet the familiar misgivings that assaulted him all through the interminable drive into Gotham's sister city. It was entirely possible, he knew, that Dick wouldn't want to see him, and he could hardly blame him if that turned out to be the case; nevertheless, he had to try, especially today of all days. _Twenty one is his age of majority,_ he remembered as he parked in front of a non-descript apartment building deep in the heart of Bludhaven. _If I don't fix this now…well, the symbolism isn't good, let's leave it at that._

Which unit was occupied by his son was a piece of knowledge that Bruce had safeguarded since the first day the younger man had taken up occupancy in the midst of industrial sprawl. Despite knowing exactly where he was going, he paused in the entrance to read the names on the mailboxes, pretending to search for someone as he wrestled with what to say. _'Hello' sounds like I'm ignoring everything that's happened,_ his brows drew together as he debated. _'Buy you a drink?' Or…well, I guess 'I'm sorry' would be a good way to start…_ It fell flat on his ears, though, when he practiced it in a whisper. _Oh, hell, I don't know…_

Looking down, he discovered that he'd unwittingly brought the book in with him from the car. _…How long has it been since __you__ read it?_ he pondered. _Too long, maybe. But then again, you cared enough about that passage to write something next to it, so…I would bet that you haven't forgotten those exact words, even if the rest are nothing but a vague memory. _Well aware that he would stand there all day debating the question if he let himself, the billionaire forced himself to straighten up and turn into the corridor. _Don't hate me,_ he begged silently as he approached the correct number. _Be home,_ was added as his finger hesitated for a moment before stabbing forward into the glowing little button that marked the buzzer. _But most of all, Dick, please, __please__ don't hate me…_

The door swung open, and from the look on his face when he saw who had rung Dick clearly hadn't bothered to look through the peephole. "…_Bruce_," he breathed, his eyes wide and instantly damp.

Gulping, the man in the hall extended the leather-bound volume. "…I'm tired of being consumed by grief, real _or_ imagined," fell out of his mouth before he knew what he was saying. "I want to live again, Dick. But…I don't know how to do that without you."

Startled blue glanced down at the embossed title, and it was obvious from the little shiver that followed that he knew which lines were being referenced. Slowly, his hand left the frame and traveled outward. Bruce thought he was reaching for the book, and thus was surprised when long, thin fingers wrapped around his wrist instead. Their gazes met, and something that had been sundered was reforged, stronger now than before for having seen adversity. "…Then I guess you'd better come inside," Dick replied, pulling the other man through the entrance and into a rib-cracking hug. "Fair warning, though," he added as equally needy arms closed around him. "Life's a tough subject."

A little laugh sounded, choked by restrained tears. "Yeah," Bruce managed in a watery voice. "Tell me about it?" It came out as a question, a request that the details of their lost time be filled in with eager talk, and it never even occurred to the younger of the pair to refuse it.

"You bet," he agreed. "And thanks for the book." He tightened his grip and dropped his voice to a whisper. "It came with the only thing I _really_ wanted for my birthday."

"I'm sorry," he paused, "that it wasn't a better gift."

"Don't be stupid, Bruce," Dick pulled back with a teary grin. "It's the best gift I've ever gotten, and, well…I got to get it twice. That's pretty damned special. And speaking of special," his smile softened, "they let me buy a six-pack earlier, but I haven't actually started on it. I had to wait for it to get cold. It should be there about now." He paused. "…Have one with me?"

The billionaire had to bite the insides of his cheeks to keep from bursting into sobs of joy at the offer. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."


End file.
